


Mama Bear

by WeaglesAndBrobeans



Series: A Very Capitals Collection [9]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF, Washington Capitals - Fandom
Genre: Assault, BLIND REF, Canon-Typical Violence, Heckling, Hockey, Homophobic Language, Hurt, Injury, Major Illness, National Hockey League, Panic Attacks, Pining, Protective, Racism, Seizures, Soft Ovi, Team as Family, mama bear - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2019-10-31 19:05:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17855324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeaglesAndBrobeans/pseuds/WeaglesAndBrobeans
Summary: Sometimes you need a mama bear. Sometimes that mama bear is Alexander Ovechkin, Russian Machine, guardian of his many children.This will be a series of one shots detailing the maternal nature of our dear captain Alexander Ovechkin.





	1. Not a Threat

I know Tom has already drawn penalties – like the Reaves ejection would be an obvious one. But I feel like more and more he’s taking abuse and the refs are turning a blind eye. That in mind, this snippet was born. And I know the facts are wrong, but it’s fiction so I can do what I want.

 

♥♥♥♥♥ALLCAPS♥♥♥♥♥

 

There’s something semi life altering about a glowering Alexander Ovechkin looming over you as he rage spits in your face over your incompetence.

His silver hair catching the stadium lighting, a crown of age and power. The way his towering form makes everything else seem to shrink. The way his usually jubilant eyes turn ice cold with wrath. The way his voice drops an octave.

The man becomes absolutely bear-like and it’s intimidation on a whole new level.

Most people don’t want to be a referee on a good day, but absolutely nobody wants to be Brad Watson as he gets cornered by the massive Russian.

“Yeah he’s big. Yeah he made bad hit sometimes. But don’t fuck my team,” he spat face red with fury (and not the kind that PR wants him to be unleashing). “I’m captain and I protect my team. This game gon’ get fuckin ugly if you don’t do your job. Go ahead put me in box for telling you, but you decide what this game is. You take control or it’s gon’ get fuckin ugly.”

The ref bristled at the threats and jutting his chin retorted, “You really going to threaten me Ovi?”

Alex stepped away, “Not threat, request. Will you please do your fuckin job?”

 The captain of the Washington Capitals skated away as the whistle blew. Unsportsmanlike conduct.

 

Backstrom rolled his eyes for show, but he was proud. Nobody wants to see a teammate get hurt, but things had escalated lately. Wilson had developed a reputation and as a result, he was taking cheap shots left and right. Most of which went uncalled.

The enormous Canadian forward leaned heavily against John Carlson as blood trickled from a gash on his cheekbone. He was being helped off the ice for the second time that month.

Not only had he been tripped, but it turned into a malicious double-team when on his way down another forward drove his knee into the side of Tom’s head. A scrum followed along with matching roughing calls, but the refs had kept silent on the initiating incident. Once again they watched the heart of this Caps team face intentional abuse on the ice and refused to make the call.

So as the medic tended to Wilson, Alex decided it was time to have a chat with the officials. Maybe he should’ve done it before he was ready to rip somebody’s head off. Maybe he should’ve sent his alternate.

But he didn’t.

And as he sat in the box he continued to level a glare at the zebras.

And as he skated back to the bench at the next stoppage of play he made sure to make significant eye contact again.

The message was loud and clear. If they wanted control of this game it was time to act.

 

Ten minutes later the Capitals were on the power play. Tom Wilson, back from the training room and cleared for play, had drawn his first penalty of the year- elbowing.

Ovi managed to make eye contact with his Swedish counterpart and wiggled his eyebrows, Nicky just huffed at him.

Sometimes you need a mama bear. Sometimes that mama bear is Alexander Ovechkin, Russian Machine, guardian of his many children.


	2. Cub in Danger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ovi didn’t regret anything. One of his cubs was in danger and he did what he had to do to protect. That’s what he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains assault with sexual intent, homophobic and racist slurs from an antagonistic OC. Please proceed with this in mind.

The Washington Capitals were deep into their post-game celebrations. Tonight’s win was more than just a dominant effort by all parties- it also clinched their playoff berth. With two days off the boys had gotten right to work ruining at least one of those days.

Willy kept circling the wagons, ensuring that the glasses never ran empty and the tables were never shy of a multitude of alcoholic opportunities.

Early on a redhead had tossed her sports bra at the group of rowdy boys and now Oshie was wandering around persuading them to take shots through the undergarment.

Sitting at the end of the long table with Nicky at his side, Ovi felt like the patriarch of a boisterous family on a momentous holiday. Nights like these the vodka settled warmly and blissfully. Nights like these were his favorite.

The Russian had downed 4 shots of straight vodka with the boys to kick off the night in celebration of Holtby’s 4-0 shutout. Now though he’d settled with a beer from the tap, nursing it as he scanned the room. On nights like these, when the boys would toe the line between slaphappy and out of control, he liked to keep tabs on his many children.

He knew many of the youngsters would try to pick up. Some would succeed and as they slipped out with a woman (or sometimes man) on their arm, he’d note what their chosen poison looked like.

Tonight though, their antics had quickly reached the level of clinging and cuddling and stroking and pawing that kept most interested partners at bay.

At the bar even now he could see Madison Bowey draped across Vrana’s back, arms locked around the blonde’s waist, mouth chattering excitedly right into his friend’s beer-blushed ear.

Giggling, Ovi tapped Nicky on the elbow and pointed out the two.

“Don’t know if V’s ever gon’ find good woman at this rate.”

Nicky snorted and rammed his shoulder into Ovi’s, both their drinks spilling at the collision.

“He won’t need a good woman at this rate,” the Swede slurred before biting into Alex’s shoulder.

It stung, but he would never complain about physical affection from his partner – even if it came out aggressively after his blood-alcohol level reached a certain peak.

 

 

A few minutes later Ovi’d reached Vrana once more in his rounds. This time the blonde was alone- well, except for the busty brunette practically crawling into his lap. He seemed happy enough regardless.

Madison weaving through the crowd towards the cluster of Caps players in the back, did not look content. Even through his drunken haze, Ovi had a pretty impressive ‘sad radar’ with his team. The rookie defenseman bit his lip and sucked in a stuttering breath before mustering up a grin.

The captain thought for a moment about swooping in, but he found he didn’t need to. As soon as Bowey reached the cluster of boys, TJ was beckoning him and talking excitedly. It took a millisecond for the defenseman’s grin to grow genuine as he tried to decline the American’s offer to take a shot through the neon bra. Despite his protests, he still ended up getting whitewashed by the undergarment.

He’d be okay.

That’s what Ovi assumed anyways.

 

 

An hour later Ovi heard the crash. Leaping to his feet, he zeroed in on the source and to be frank he’s never sobered up quicker in his life. In a yard sale of chairs and a now broken table, Madison was fighting off an angry man. The kid was already bleeding, and likely pretty well bruised. As the man stood, Ovi thought he was going to leave, but instead he lifted his foot and stomped down on the kid’s midsection. Ovi was now running.

As he approached the two, he could hear the man’ words and it sent Ovi’s already boiling rage into a volcanic state.

“Fuck you ya cock sucking ni**er! He bellowed as he pulled back for a kick.

He never saw the 6’3 Russian coming. Alex body-checked the man off of his rookie but didn’t let the man fall. He grabbed the assailant by the shirt and pulled him back in so he could rain rights down on the man.

Dragging the now sobbing patron towards the exit, Alex spat in his bloodied face before shoving him to the sidewalk.

“You don’t get to speak like that to anybody. But you do it to my teammate, you be glad I didn’t fuckin tear your throat out. Now go.”

The captain walked back in to the bar to find the lights on, the music halted, and a mass of shell-shocked eyes all locked on him.

Practiced in ignoring those who didn’t warrant his attention, Ovi marched right back to his fallen boy. Madison was sitting up, but not without leaning against a pale and distraught Jakub Vrana.

“What happened Mads?” he asked as he crouched down in front of the pair. The team had formed a protective barrier between them and the world. Now seemed as good a time as any to sort this out.

Chin wobbling as he tried to compose himself, Bowey answered, but his eyes stayed trained on the stained floor of the quickly emptying club.

“He just cornered me I guess and umm, he uh, he kept saying that since my, since my boy wasn’t putting out then he could, he could,” his explanation cut off with a dry sob. “I told him there was nothing he could, he could fucking do for me and he. I guess he didn’t like that.”

Alex pressed on. “So he hit you?” A nod.

“You fight back?” Another nod.

“Good boy.”

That brought those deep dark eyes up to take in his captain. Alex sat on the filthy floor, right in there with him and commended how he held himself. Madison felt anything but worthy of that.

“But, it was, it was my fault though. Like, I was acting like, well not acting, I was just,” a tear slipped down his cheek and his eyes were back on the tiles below him.

Before anyone could speak, Vrana huffed behind his friend. “I told you B. People act stupid. We can’t just. We can’t.”

Before Ovi could speak to that, his alternate was crouching in front of the pair.

“No. You don’t change for anybody. He’s a fucking crazy man. We don’t live like we’re ashamed of who we are. Not when fucks like that guy are around. Not ever. We do stick with team though.”

 

 

As the group had pulled Madison to his feet, ice pack now pressed firmly against his cheek and Vrana pressed firmly against his side, the red and blue lights danced into the room.

“Well fuck,” muttered Nicky.

The man had called the cops and now Ovi was facing assault charges. Humble and quiet he allowed the officers to cuff him and lead him out. Oshie and Carlson were calling after their captain, vowing to sort this shit show out.

But Ovi didn’t regret anything. One of his cubs was in danger and he did what he had to do to protect. That’s what he does.  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! If you had any thoughts, or comments please share! 
> 
> Also, remember I'm open to any plot bunnies you may have on this Mama Bear Ovi theme.


	3. Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It took a single moment for the longing to rush through his entire being. He needed to be inside that blanket. Even better- he needed to be inside that blanket and smushed up to the bear of a man who was currently draping it over his own broad shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the ideas here are driven by the article Russian Machine Never Breaks wrote about the accompanying photo.  
> Here's the link to the article: https://russianmachineneverbreaks.com/2016/12/15/alex-ovechkins-duties-as-captain-include-shielding-andre-burakovsky-from-the-polar-vortex/

 

Andre is cold. Andre is tired. Andre needs a good snuggle.

His frame wracked with shivers as he curled in on himself hoping to preserve what little body heat remained, but at this point the endeavor felt hopeless. The tram the team gathered in felt drafty and unhelpful in fighting off the bitter winter chill. Even the small televisions they’d passed as they meandered through the airport were all saying the same thing, “Polar vortex! Stay warm! Take precaution!”

Some of it was clearly his own fault – he’d chosen to sleep in and as a result he ran out of time to dig for a hat. His wet curls had actually frozen as he’d hustled through New York’s biting air towards the airport shuttle. That had been at 7am and now, four hours later, he still hadn’t managed to warm up.

The young Swede bit his lip in an attempt to still his chattering teeth, but all he managed was to bruise the tender skin. Andre was cold.

A trickle of laughter and some mocking jeers turned Andre’s attention to the boys around him. Across the aisle sat his captain as he pulled out a massive white blanket – or comforter? Andre racked his brain for where the Russian could’ve acquired such a massive bundle of warmth. Not that it mattered to Andre. It took a single moment for the longing to rush through his entire being. He needed to be inside that blanket. Even better- he needed to be inside that blanket and smushed up to the bear of a man who was currently draping it over his own broad shoulders.

He could just slither over and creep into the warmth he desired so badly. But he didn’t want to be _too_ needy. So instead he let out the sneeze he’d been holding in and amped up the shivering before glancing pathetically and longingly in Ovechkin’s general direction. Ovi didn’t even glance his way.

Andre huffed. He’d have to step up his game. Crawling to his knees on the seat, Andre draped himself over the back so he was up in Tom Wilson’s space.

“Did your hair freeze this morning? Cause my hair almost broke off,” he whined loudly at his friend. Tom quirked an eyebrow at the Swede. Perhaps Willy knew him too well to be a good target for this, but Andre maintained a wide innocent gaze before glancing once more to see if Alex had noticed his obvious suffering yet. He hadn’t.

He carried on.

“Why do you get to cuddle with Latts? I’m over here about to shake right of the tram, on the verge of pneumonia and you get the cuddles? It’s not fair.”  

Despite his whining and jutted lip, Tom just rolled his eyes. “Shut up Burky. If you want to snuggle why don’t you go get some love from Ovi?”

Alex finally glanced their way and Andre wasn’t sure whether to reward Tom for garnering their captain’s attention or smack him for being too direct.

Regardless, Ovi peering from the warmth of his giant white nest, looked over the shivering rookie and frowned.

“Bura you need eat more,’ he scolded. And that was decidedly _not_ the plan. He didn’t need a lecture, he needed inside of that blanket.

“O,” he whined. “You think some fucking spaghetti is going to make it warm up fifty degrees?”

Pouring on the most pitiful pout he could muster, Andre curled further in on himself. If he could look as small and helpless as possible, maybe just maybe, he could get the invite he’d been fishing for.

Nicklas Backstrom leaned over the seat behind Ovi and with a mischievous grin whispered something that had the two veterans grinning at Andre. He shifted self-consciously under their gazes, but it was all but forgotten when Ovi opened his arms and with a small smile beckoned Andre over.

Andre didn’t hesitate at all before leaping across the aisle and snuggling close in an attempt to leach as much warmth as possible from the furnace of a man and his possibly stolen bedspread. The shift was instantaneous as the warmth of Ovechkin’s cocoon surrounded the small Swede. For the first time since he’d stepped out into the tundra that morning, Andre didn’t feel like he was on the verge of freezing to death.

“Tack,’ he murmured. Ovi smirked down at the rookie cuddled into his side. “Have to keep little cub warm. Maybe you like superman. Need sun to be strong.”

Andre tensed at his captain’s words. The team had been doing alright. They’d beaten the Islanders 4-2 the night before, but Andre hadn’t really contributed. He’d actually been in a point drought for some time now.

“Sorry captain,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I can,” he faltered. “I can do better.”

A small frown pulled at Ovechkin’s lips. It deepened the age lines that betrayed how long Alex had been at this. It betrayed exactly how demanding this road can be.

“Bura,” Ovi chided. “I say you’re superman. You fast, smart, creative. I don’t worry. But maybe you just cold. Need more hugs. Need more cuddles. Maybe you warm up and score tomorrow.”

With the same speed and intensity that Ovi’s cocoon had fought off the chill in Andre’s bones, Ovi’s words flooded Andre with warmth. His captain wasn’t disappointed. In fact, his captain was hopeful.

Grinning, Andre sighed. He loved DC. He loved the capitals. And he loved his team.

 Justin Williams broke the spell as he turned and held up his phone. “Awww. Now that’s leadership baby.”

 

 


	4. I Still Mourn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kuzy wasn’t just irritable. There was a dark underlying edge to it all. The hunch of his shoulders, the bite to his words. It felt like a wounded animal. It felt deeper, maybe even anguish-driven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was set in May 2016, the end of Kuzy’s second year as a Capital (Oshie’s first year in DC).
> 
> This chapter deals with death and grief, so bear that in mind. 
> 
> Grief is a monster. It doesn't play by the rules. And if it decides to rear its ugly head long after it first crept in, well then there's nothing we can do about that but ride it out.

“Fuck off!” 

Oshie recoiled at the growl from his teammate. He’d apparently misread the interaction and set off the occasionally touchy Russian. 

Cheeks tinged pink with embarrassment from the public altercation, Oshie stepped back. Giving a small nod and a quiet, “sorry man,” he left Kuznetsov to his little dark cloud. 

Most of the Capitals had slowly returned to their own conversations and post practice rituals, but one pair of eyes rested steadily on the irritable man. 

Kuzy had been snappy all morning. He’d kept his head down all throughout practice, shrugging off friendly pats or hugs. Unfortunately a grouchy Kuzy isn’t the same as a grouchy Nicky. His game thrived on creativity and mischief. So today, his play faltered. He whiffed on passes and his turnover rate was higher than normal which is... well it’s really bad. 

Maybe he was just having a rough morning. Maybe he was having a fight with the wife. Maybe it was really that simple. 

But Kuzy wasn’t just irritable. There was a dark underlying edge to it all. The hunch of his shoulders, the bite to his words. It felt like a wounded animal. It felt deeper, maybe even anguish-driven. 

And that’s why Ovi couldn’t blow this off. If something deeper was happening here, he couldn’t just walk away. 

The older Russian sat next to his friend and slouched back against the wood between two stalls. He watched closely to see Kuzy shift away and avert his eyes. 

 

As soon as Kuzy stood to grab his bag, Ovi spoke. 

“We eat lunch today. My place.”

The blonde’s eyebrows furrowed, the steel blue of his eyes seemed to harden. 

“Practice is over,” he hissed in Russian. “You’re not my captain right now.”

Ovi hummer thoughtfully and shook his head. “Ah good. Because I don’t think you need a captain right now. I think you need a friend.”

Kuzy bit off a choked noise that sounded suspiciously like a whine. Something churned in Ovechkin’s stomach. This was bad. What ever was going on here was really bad. 

“Come.”

The two made their way out of the locker room and Ovi herded his friend towards his bright blue sports car. They drove in silence. Ovi didn’t even plug into his aux chord like he usually would. 

As his mind racked for a possible source to Kuzy’s pain, Ovi felt an unusual push towards delicate. He didn’t want to pry too hard and miss this chance to care for his friend. 

 

Pulling up to Ovi’s house they shuffled inside. As the silence tarried a thick tension rippled between them. Ovi felt sick with it. He would give anything to protect this team. So when one of his boys stood in his kitchen looking positively miserable, it gouged at every matronly instinct his mother had ingrained into him over the years. By the time the two had settled with Gatorade's and sandwiches on the large aging couch, Kuzy was twitching and clearly uncomfortable. 

“I’m not gonna fuck up the playoff run Alex. I just need a day to, to-,” his hand flapped at nothing. 

Ovi gazed at the rookie (well he wasn’t a rookie anymore but the kid was still a kid as far as Ovi was concerned). 

“Oh Zhenya. That’s not what this is about.”

There was something about the way Kuzy sank into the cushions, something about the near vibration pouring off of the young man. It felt familiar. And that’s when it hit. 

“What’s the date today?” Ovi asked casually. And the stiffening of Kuzy’s shoulders, the pained widening of his pupils as his gaze tilted towards wild, it all confirmed Ovi’s suspicions. 

“It’s the,” Kuzy faltered, eyes glazing as he began to tremble. “It’s the first.”

The first of May. May Day. The anniversary of the violent death of Kuzy’s big brother. 

"So not just any day then," Ovi commented, voice hushed. Kuzy jerked as the comment hit him. 

“It’s been twelve fucking years,” he choked out. “And it still fucks me every time.”

Ovi didn’t move. He didn’t comfort or placate. He just waited quietly, making space for Kuznetsov to unravel if that’s what he needed to do. 

“I just. I’m a kid still. You call me a kid every day and I’ve got so much life to live but he never even made it this far. When... when he died he seemed so fucking old. But now it’s like. Fuck. He was so young. He was so fucking young.”

 

Tears had begun to trail down his scrunched up cheeks. Escaping through clinched eyes as he shook and tried not to let his emotions spiral out of control. But it was too late. He felt like Alex had taken a crowbar to his chest, shoving it in and prying it open so his heart was beating wildly out in the open. He felt exposed and raw and vulnerable. 

The sorrow flooded out as Kuzy allowed himself to openly mourn his brother's death. 

“They wanted me to live my life you know?” He whimpered about his parents. “So we moved and we ignored and I just played and played and played and fuck. I don’t know Alex.”

He slumped over until his head was in his captain's lap and immediately Alex began to scratch the young man’s head, combing his fingers across the short hair. 

 

“Some days hockey is the air that keeps you alive. Some days it tastes like poison, like a trap,” Ovi murmured quietly. “But we get to feel what we feel and not let guilt convince us to pretend the poison is sweet. It doesn’t have to be good every day.”

Kuzy was curling closer into Alex when a thought struck. 

“You lost your big brother too, yeah?”

Where a spark usually danced in Alex’s eyes, for this moment it faded, leaving a somber tint in its wake. He nodded. 

 

“We all lose people we love. And if you need to come undone six years from today then that’s okay. It’s been almost twenty years since we lost Sergei. I still mourn. I will always mourn. And that’s okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments are appreciated and motivating. Thanks for taking the time to read!


	5. Family Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Holy shit,” he muttered as tears burned in his eyes. Locking his trembling fingers into his scraggly blonde hair he attempted to ground himself.
> 
>  
> 
> New Capital Carl Hagelin has an eye opening moment about the mama bear that is his new captain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A panic attack is described.   
> Crude language is used by some young boys heckling our new Capital.

Carl Hagelin slipped quietly into the locker room, earbuds in and eyes glued to the floor. He’d been acclimating to this new team pretty seamlessly up to this point. The Caps were close knit, but they were also some of the warmest guys he’d been around during his time in the league. By contrast, the city itself seemed to be taking its sweet time adjusting to his presence.

Each morning since the trade, Hagelin had woken up in his hotel and followed the same routine. Lying awake in bed he would remind himself of where he was and who he played for. He would run through names and faces in his mind and do his best to make connections between his new teammates. After a shower and a protein shake he would dress for the day and walk to the practice rink.

Today a few fans recognized the Swede and called out to him. At first his heart had leapt at already being known in this city, but the tone quickly shifted.

“Oh my god, is that Carl Hagelin?”

He’d slowed his step as he heard the exclamation, turning to face the owner of the voice. Hagelin offered a warm smile when he saw a Caps baseball hat tucked onto the head of the oldest boy. Three of them stood clustered together, peering at the hockey player. The teens were evidently fans of the team, but there was no mistaking the sneers painted on their young faces.

“We don’t fucking want you here Hag!”

“You suck!”

“Nobody wants you in DC!”

“Once a Crosby-cock-sucking Pen, always a cock-sucking Pen!”

Hagelin’s smile fell when the first insult came. He tensed and shouldered past the boys, fully expecting them to be all bark-no bite. Hunched and walking quickly away he refused to acknowledge their words.

What he didn’t expect was the sharp pain that blossomed in the back of his head as a sharp object struck. One of the boys had thrown something at him, perhaps a rock. Indigence flared in his chest as the pain pulsed, but he knew he had to reel it in. He couldn’t retaliate. He needed to just get to the arena as quickly as possible. So, ignoring the stinging at the base of his skull, he picked up his pace and left the whole thing behind him. It was fine. It would all be just fine.

 Maybe if he could help this team get that back-to-back championship then the city would let bygones be bygones.

Sticking to routine, Hagelin found himself the first person in the Caps dressing room once again. But now, safe within the walls of the practice rink, the incident caught up with him. He wandered out to the ice and slumped into one of the plastic arena seats. He could feel his hands shaking and his breath stuttering. Anger wrestled with genuine fear and he hated every single emotion swelling within him.

“Holy shit,” he muttered as tears burned in his eyes. Locking his trembling fingers into his scraggly blonde hair he attempted to ground himself. But his emotions were ballooning rapidly, choking out any effort to think critically about the situation. Cruel words of disapproval and hatred rattled in his mind alongside the escalation of fear and humiliation.

That could’ve been so much worse. But it was still really fucking horrible. He’d never received such a poor welcome before in all of his trades. And their words stung sure, but to actually be assaulted? To have something thrown at him? He’d never dealt with anything like this before.

In his panic-driven haze, he vaguely registered in his mind that he should maybe talk to Orpik. He’d been a Pittsburgh transplant as well, maybe he’d faced similar animosity.

It took some time, but slowly his breath evened and he felt the fight-or-flight instinct disperse.

_Nothing like a panic attack to start your day_ , he thought snidely to himself. With a final deep breath he pulled out his phone and turned up the volume on his headphones before attempting to sneak into the locker room. He wasn’t ready to talk about this. He may never be ready to talk about this. So eyes down, he slowly entered the room.

Up to this moment, he’d worked hard to be animated and amicable with the guys. They were the most important group to sell on his worth. They were the ones he needed to bond with. But he couldn’t force a smile right now. Not with his heart still rattling around in his chest. So he decided to just keep his head down and go through the motions. Hopefully they’d assume he was having a rough day and steer clear.

No such luck.

The massive hand of Alexander Ovechkin fell heavy on his shoulder. “Come talk with me?” he offered in his thick Russian accent. Hagelin cringed.

“I’m fine,” he muttered. When the hand stayed, he tried to shrug it off, irritation bubbling within him. “Really, though. I’m fine.”

He could hear his captain sigh heavily, but the man stayed rooted by his side. Thankfully, there were only a handful of players who felt the need to arrive this early for an optional practice. But he really didn’t want to be drawing any attention to himself at all.

“Your head’s bleeding Hags. Come. Let’s go see Jason.”

Hagelin froze. He hadn’t even realized he’d been cut. This day honestly couldn’t get any worse. He resigned to comply, nodding and turning towards the trainer’s room. Eyes trained firmly on the carpet, he didn’t look back to see if Ovechkin would follow.

When the pair entered the room, Jason glanced up from a file he’d been thumbing through and raised an eyebrow.

“What can I do for you boys?”

Hagelin faltered, slowing to a stop and searching for what to say. At his hesitation, Ovi knocked his shoulder against Hagelin’s and spoke up on his behalf.

“Haggy’s got a cut we need you to look at,” he explained, gesturing vaguely at the back of the Swede’s head.

The head athletic trainer set the file down and approached the new player. He’d met with Hagelin and Jensen when they’d arrived, as he does with all new players to let them know that this was a safe space. They had the player’s best interests in mind always and they should feel free to speak up about concerns big or small. But Carl Hagelin seemed hunched in on himself, almost as if he were ashamed to be standing there.

“Hey Carl,” he greeted as he turned the veteran player gently around. “Let’s see what we’ve got here. Can you tell me what happened?”

The shoulder beneath his palm tightened as he asked. Something was off here. And the cut tucked beneath his dirty blonde curls ran jagged and deep.

He did his best to part the long scraggly hair on either side of the cut while wearing rubber gloves and waited for his patient to respond.

“You get mugged Haggy?” asked Ovi as he peered worriedly at his fellow winger. Hagelin’s mouth was pinched tightly, his eyes had settled on the far wall as if he’d managed to escape to somewhere else entirely without leaving the room.

The question did garner his attention though. He shook his head sharply.

“Just some punk kids. It’s nothing.”

“They take your wallet? We need to make report?”

Once again the blonde shook his head. Sucking in a breath, and chewing on his lower lip. He didn’t want to make this into a big thing. Before he could reply, Jason pinched at the wound to see if it would require stitches. Hagelin sucked in sharply at the stinging.

“It’s fine. Just let it go, please.”

He’d been in the league for over a decade. He’d taken hits and faced jeers and he was now considered a veteran. The last thing he wanted was to appear as pathetic as he felt. He was 30 years old. He shouldn’t be dealing with 16 year old bullies. It was pitiful.

Jason stepped back and pulled off his gloves.

“It’s definitely gonna need stitches. I’m gonna go grab what we’ll need so you can hop up on the bed and wait. We will need to know what caused this though, for the medical report. If you really don’t want Alex to know then I can ask him to step out, but you don’t get an option with me.”

Hagelin felt sick. He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to voice this. He wanted to move on. He also didn’t want to isolate himself by pushing away the captain. This was the fucking worst.

When Jason reentered and began to set out a numbing needle, a threading needle, and thread for the stitches, Hagelin worked up the strength to hash this out.

“I’m gonna numb it and then while that sets in we can go over the report. Do you want Alex gone?”

Hagelin chanced a glance at the tall Russian. He usually towered over him, but seated hunched down on the medical bed Ovechkin seemed to loom.

“Uh, no. He can. He can stay.”

Ovi’s somber concern slipped momentarily into a pleased grin as he received permission to continue his mothering. He’d already retrieved a cup of water and shoed out Burky as the Swede wandered in looking for his icy hot medicinal cream. Not every team had a captain who led this intentionally both on and off of the ice, but from day one Ovechkin had been nothing but welcoming and engaged. Today it had grown to borderline excessive.

Hagelin kept his eyes trained on the taller man as the needle sunk into his skull. Ovi pouted at the blonde’s wince and as the needle pulled away he glanced expectantly at their head medical trainer, Jason, who had disposed of the needle and reached for a clipboard.

“Okay, so when did this happen?”

“Maybe at like, 7:15 this morning, right in there.” Ovi’s eyebrows dipped. It had been nearly 8 when he walked in to find blood trickling down the back of Hagelin’s head.

“And where you were you?”

“Umm, just past that café, the leaf café, something leaf”

“The Sweet Leaf? You were walking or driving?”

“Walking. It’s like a five minute walk from my hotel to here so, I uh. I walk.”

“And how did the laceration come about?”

This is where he hesitated. His cheeks flushed red with embarrassment. It felt so pathetic. But he couldn’t lie about it either. He just wasn’t that person.

“These kids, maybe high school aged? They uh, were kind of heckling me. For uh, being here I guess. And I didn’t stop or acknowledge it or anything, but after I passed them, they or one of them I guess, just uh. Threw something I think. I wasn’t looking back you know? But yeah. Something hit my head. Maybe a rock? I don’t really know. I just kept walking.”

He’d refused to look up as he recounted the story.

“Okay. So, why did you wait until now to come in and get it looked at?”

“I didn’t know. It stung, but I didn’t know it was bleeding.”

He finally glanced up at Ovechkin. He expected disbelief or mockery perhaps. He felt foolish just telling the story, he can’t imagine what hearing it would be like. But what he found surprised him. Ovechkin was gazing steadily at him, his eyes soft with compassion and a hint of distress.

“Haggy. You’re team now. Outside, they don’t always get it. They ask to trade me. Ask to trade Burky. They have lots of opinions. In here. You’re family. You in my family now. Every man in that locker room has your back Haggy. You not fight us now, you fight for us. So we fight for you too.”

Ovi stayed as Jason cleaned out and sewed up the cut. He promised not to make it into a big to-do with the team and even helped divert the questions that came when Hagelin came in with stitches in his head and a no-contact jersey on.

After their next home game Ovi was on media duty and the inevitable questions about the value of Hagelin and Jensen came up.

“We love them. Glad to have them on this team. They work hard for us and bring good things. They really Caps now. One of us,” Hagelin had been shouldering through the locker room when Ovi said it and the big Russian winked goofily at him from his perch behind the reporters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always appreciate comments. I would especially love to hear of any ideas or scenarios or even just players that you'd like me to use in this Mama Bear series.


	6. Diagnosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Kemps, you good?”   
> Michal peeled himself from the tiled floor and turned to face his captain. His first thought was _abort_. Ovi was the kind of captain who goes above and beyond for his team- which includes turning a mildly unwell defenseman in to the trainers if he finds him puking in the locker room.

“Push through! Thirty more seconds gentlemen!”

 

Michal leaned into his handle bars, sucking in a shaky breath as his stomach churned. The spin class was almost finished and there was no way he was going to let a little nausea stop him from pressing in to the end.

When the final whistle sounded he slouched forward, breath heavy and body aching.

The worst thing about an injury is the fear. Fear of not recovering. Fear of losing the sport he loved. The second worst thing was trying to get back to full health. The news breathes down your neck, instilling doubt, intensifying that fear.

“Can he return to playing form? Has he passed his prime? There’s no way he comes back as strong as he was before. This isn’t going to be the Stanley Cup Champion we last saw out on the ice.” The skepticism ate at him. So did needing to puke after a 45 minute spin class. He felt weak.

Stumbling into the locker room, the lights suddenly seemed to brighten. Squinting to guard against what felt like an onslaught from the overhead lighting, Michal lunged for a bathroom stall and collapsed to his knees. He heaved as shivers wracked his frame and he couldn’t help but stare at the blue liquid filling the bowl. _Maybe I should’ve had more than just Gatorade for breakfast._

When his stomach finally settled he leaned against the bowl letting the porcelain cool his cheek. He was just tired. At least that’s what he kept telling himself.

“Kemps, you good?”

Michal peeled himself from the tiled floor and turned to face his captain. His first thought was _abort._ Ovi was the kind of captain who goes above and beyond for his team- which includes turning a mildly unwell defenseman in to the trainers if he finds him puking in the locker room.

“I’m fine. Ate something weird before conditioning. No worry.”

Ovi leaned forward, filling up the space between them as he gently grasped Michal’s elbow. It quickly became evident that this was a tactic in keeping the younger man from slipping away. Which was precisely what he wanted to do because his captain was brushing his forearm against Michal’s clammy forehead.

“You hot.”

Michal snorted. “Yeah I am.”

“No, you’re-,” the Russian pressed on.

“Hot. Physically warm. Yes. I just worked out O. Come on. I’m fine.” He gazed up at Ovechkin, trying to somehow convey that he didn’t need extra attention.

Slowly, Ovechkin stepped back and nodded in consent. “I’ve got eyes on you.”

A breathy laugh escaped Michal as he grinned fondly at his overprotective captain. “Yeah, well all you get to see is me kicking ass at our home opener tomorrow.”

“You better!”

As Michal walked away he could hear booming laughter echoing behind him.

 

_____

 

His feet were dragging, his muscles ached, and he was freezing cold, but nothing was going to stop him from playing tonight. He’d missed the entire pre-season proving he was ready for this. Michal Kempny was playing hockey tonight.

Leaning against the boards during warmups, Michal rubbed at his eyes hoping to abate the migraine that was relentlessly attacking his brain.

“Bratiška (little brother),” whispered Ovi as he skated up to his teammate. “You don’t look good.”

Michal glowered at his captain, a rage simmering next to the nausea in his gut. “Fuck off O,” he growled.

Ovi leaned back, eyes widening at the foul mood emanating off the Czech. “Michal?”

Eyes blinking thickly, Michal glanced blankly at Ovechkin, almost as if he were taking in his presence beside him for the first time. “Did you, did you need something cap?”

Ovechkin stilled. “I asked if you okay and you said fuck off. What’s going on Kempny?”

“What? Oh, god. Sorry. I just,” he sighed and wiped a hand down his face. Everything felt off. Once again his head flared with pain, a deep aching throb. It brought him to his knees.

“Michal? Michal?! Jason come, Kemp needs-,” abruptly, the defenseman who had been leaning heavily against his concerned captain began to seize.

What began as initial panic quickly transformed into a completely foreign experience. The world seemed to blur out, the buzz of the arena turned to static, and he was vaguely aware of his body trembling and jolting.

_I’m dying. Oh my god. I’m dying. Holy fuck. I’m dying._

His mind continued to race in circles until slowly, the arena came back into his field of vision.

Michal turned and puked on the ice.

The next few moments were overwhelming. Ovi kept his head cushioned beneath his hands where he’d likely placed them when he’d begun convulsing. Jason and his training staff surrounded him with paramedics and doctors, taking notes and checking his vitals.

Michal was tired. And his head still hurt. “Can I go home?” he slurred out sleepily. A chorus of “no!” bounced back at him.

Just as the medical team began to load him onto a backboard, one of the interns called out and reached for his harm. “Mr. Kempny, how long have you had this rash?” she asked as she pushed the sleeve of his jersey up revealing what looked to Michal like a blotchy series of bruises. “I don’t, I don’t know.”

The intern sprang to her feet and ran towards the locker room. TJ Oshie met her at the door when she returned and helped her keep balance as she ran back towards the now loaded stretcher. In her hand was a mason jar. Pulling at the fabric to reveal his arm once more, she pressed the glass container against the rash. It remained bright red.

“Meningitis,” she breathed out. “And he just had a fucking seizure.” A sense of urgency swept over the group.

Ovechkin looked around him trying to decipher what all this meant for his teammate. Noticing the look of foreboding in John Carlson’s eyes, he kissed Michal on the forehead, patted his shoulders twice, and skated back towards the veteran defenseman to try and sort out what all was happening.

“John you know? What is it?”

The American swallowed thickly, eyes glued to his skate laces. “I don’t know about adults, but my cousin got meningitis as a baby and he didn’t make it. Seizures, they’re like, they’re a pretty late symptom.”

“Shit,” cursed Ovechkin, tapping his stick as the stretcher disappeared from view. “Shit.”

 

_____

 

They lost. Ovechkin couldn’t find it in him to be mad. It was a circus. It was a disaster. But he needed to know if their teammate, their brother, would be okay.

It was difficult to ‘Do it for Kempny’ when his heart raced and his mind fled every time he caught sight of the 6 on the back of Ryan Pulock.

The team had retreated to their stalls in silence, the occasional rustle or tear as they cut at sock tape and stripped out of their pads.

Ovechkin rushed his shower not wanting to miss an update if one came, but none did. Before long, the media scrum (another shit show to be honest) had resolved and most of the boys sat in their game day suits, knees bobbing and hands tapping as they waited, and waited.

Finally Jason, their head trainer, pushed open the door. Behind him followed Wilson, eyebrow freshly stitched.

“We got word from Howard University Hospital just a few minutes ago. Michal has bacterial meningitis.”

Those who knew the risk, the threat of the diagnosis recoiled. Those that didn’t, well they got the picture. Not good.

“They think they caught it soon enough, but only time will tell. He signed off for me to keep you all updated. So _when_ he pulls through, you can all thank him for that. They’ve got him on antibiotics to fight it and anticonvulsants to keep another seizure at bay. It’s a lot. It’s going to be a long road back, but the doctors are pulling for him and you can be damn sure we are as well.”

Ovechkin sat taking it all in. He wasn’t sure what everything meant. It didn’t sound like they even knew if Kempny was going to beat this. One thing was very clear to him though. He needed to go see his teammate.

Standing he grabbed his phone and keys and glanced around the room. “Do what you need to do. You heard coach, morning skate is optional. So, do. What. You need. To do. I’m head to Howard now. Anyone who wants can join. Nobody has to. Be with family if you need.”

Jason spoke up one more time, “And I’ll be scheduling appointments for all of you to get your systems checked. We don’t want this thing to get any ideas about wreaking havoc on this team.”

Ovi shivered at the thought. One cub was bad enough.

 

 

 


	7. My Center

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite bursting through the entryway, Ovi skidded to a halt once he saw the slouched form of his dearest friend. Emma glanced up as the bells jingled above the door. She offered a sad smile, but didn’t pull away from where she’d been leaning over the counter, slender hand soothing in a mess of dirty blonde atop Nicky’s head. The Swede sat with his face in the crook of his elbow and as Ovi drew nearer his heart lurched all the more. Nicky was shaking.

The Ovechkin’s loved to host parties. Their massive home may seem overt for a family of three, but they were never going to be a closed door couple.   
Once again, their lobby brimmed with guests as Russian techno pulsed through the overhead sound system. Many of their Russian teammates scattered about, drinks in hand as they danced and swayed. To Ovi, a night off wasn’t really a night off. It was a chance to enjoy life to the fullest.   
The Captain of the Washington Capitals leaned over a counter as he watched his wife film herself and anyone she could catch for a moment. It was a perfectly normal night off.   
Buzzing caught his attention though, and he glanced down to see a new text waiting on his phone. 

Saturday 1:02 AM   
Your Swede needs you.

The text came from Emma, the bar tender at a small Tap and Grill nearby. Ovi and Nicky had frequented the quiet bar for nearing a decade now. They knew just about every employee on a first name basis.   
Without even pausing to text a reply, Ovi reached for his keys and blew Nastya a kiss. Her eyebrow quirked in question, but Ovi just smiled and slipped through the crowd towards the front door. 

Rain splashed on his windshield, smudging the street lights from view as he drove. He’d been racking his brain for what could be going on with Nicky and as he slowed to a halt at a stoplight his stomach jolted. Early that morning Nicky had anxiously told him that he had a date. The Swede had been divorced for nearly a year and a half, but he hadn’t put out since that time. Beyond just getting back on the playing field, tonight was to be his first ever date with another man. And now as Ovi shot forward on green his heart pounding, he realized it must not have gone well at all.

Ovi whipped into the first parking space he could find and began to splash through the dimly lit street. The hour and the weather proved a perfect cover for the superstar athlete as he ran determinedly down the sidewalk. Evan, the homeless man who lived outside of the bar, was the only person out. 

Despite bursting through the entryway, Ovi skidded to a halt once he saw the slouched form of his dearest friend. Emma glanced up as the bells jingled above the door. She offered a sad smile, but didn’t pull away from where she’d been leaning over the counter, slender hand soothing in a mess of dirty blonde atop Nicky’s head. The Swede sat with his face in the crook of his elbow and as Ovi drew nearer his heart lurched all the more. Nicky was shaking. 

“Nicke?” he questioned softly. His gaze, locked on his friend, didn’t miss the catch in Nicky’s breath or the still of his shoulders.  
“You’re supposed to be at a party,” Nicky admonished, voice muffled in his arm.   
“You’re supposed to be on a date,” Ovi retorted, but it had no bite or jest, just compassion.  
Emma bit her lip, eyes bouncing between the two athletes before she pulled away. “Let me know if ya need anything.”  
Left alone, Ovi stepped closer and rested a massive hand on his friends back. He felt the flinch, but didn’t pull away.   
“What happened Nicke? He ditch you?”  
“I wish.”  
Those two words sent a cold chill down Ovi’s spine.   
“What he do Nicke?”  
Slowly, Nicky lifted his head and turned to face his friend. Ovi saw red.   
The Swede’s left eye couldn’t open because of the puff of swelling surrounding it. His lip, fat and red, had a split still wet with blood. Worst of all, a dark red hand print stood stark against the pale tender skin of his neck.   
“What the fuck?” growled Ovi, body coiled with rage at the sight of his best friend.   
“I’m fine Alex,” hissed Nicky.   
“Like hell you are.”  
Despite the harshness of his voice, Ovi’s hands were soft as he cupped his friends chin. Nicky’s eyes fell shut at the attention.   
“You want tell me now or in the car?”  
Chin wobbling, the usually stoic man pressed further into his friend’s palm.   
“He said I owed it to him. That I was,” Nicky paused, interrupted by his own bitter laugh. “Said I was so fucking boring I at least owed him a good time.”   
“And you said no?”  
“And I said no.”  
“And he, what he hit you?”  
A distant look slid into Nicky’s eyes, sending a shock of worry through Ovi. “Nicke?”  
“He tried to take what he wanted anyways.”  
As Ovi took that in, his eyes wandered to Nicky’s hands. Those delicate, talented hands wrapped loosely around a glass were slowly bruising. His nails had bits of red tucked underneath.   
“You fought.”  
“Yes I fucking fought. I may never date again, but if I’d let him. If he’d. Alex, I don’t think I could be okay again. I just. Alex. Shit,” tears gathered under the Swede’s dark eyelashes and he collapsed forward, pressing into his friend’s broad shoulder.  
Readily, Ovi surrounded his center. His center. He’d said it for years in interview after interview. Nicke is best center. And it’s true. Out on the ice, nobody does it better as far as he’s concerned. But maybe, just maybe, Nicky is his center off the ice too. A consistent friend of 15 years. Nicky grounded him and pushed him and while so much in life shifts and varies without consent, Nicky was always there.   
So as his center cracked, Ovi did not hesitate. Ovi held Nicky. He poured his love out. You can break. You can cry. You can hurt. I’m here. All of it squeezed into his center.   
“I’m gonna fuckin kill him,” Ovi grumbled.   
Nicky pulled his cheek from Ovi’s chest and cocked an eyebrow.  
“What makes you think I haven’t already?”  
Rumbling with laughter, Ovi grinned down at the blonde.   
“Don’t know how anyone can call you boring.”  
“That’s what every mom says.”  
“If you’re team papa, and I’m mom does that mean?”  
“Go home to your wife Ovi.”  
“Maybe she let you stay too. She likes all the strays I bring home.”  
Nicky hesitated. Ovi’s eyes held a sincerity, not jest. Something in him yearned. But, no. For over a decade they’d been side by side and he’d be damned if he let his emotions ruin the best friendship anyone could ask for.   
“Ha ha, very funny,” he forced. “Thanks. For everything Alex. But I’m fine.”  
Taking a cautious step backward, he bit his lip before turning and without looking back, he stepped out into the rain.

**Author's Note:**

> I am incredibly motivated by comments, so if you have the time I'd love to hear your thoughts, reactions, feelings and suggestions.  
> I think this series could be a lot of fun, so I'm open to any prompts you're aching to see filled.


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